The Second Coming of Blake Moran
by Laineyvb131
Summary: A series of (five) vignettes in the life of Blake Moran on his journey to the State Department and his relationship with Elizabeth McCord. "When MSec sits down with me, she has to think I'm the second coming of, well, me." Blake Moran, The Courage to Continue (S5E8)
1. Chapter 1: Winter 2006

**The Second Coming of Blake Moran**

A series of (five) vignettes in the life of Blake Moran on his journey to the State Department and his relationship with Elizabeth McCord.

"When MSec sits down with me, she has to think I'm the second coming of, well, me." Blake Moran, The Courage to Continue (S5E8)

 _Author's note: I adore the Blake/Elizabeth relationship. I've used some facts & tidbits from the show, as best I can, and borrowed some of Blake's famous lines. The rest is a product of my imagination. This story is for 2queens1prince, because she asked nicely. And because I owe her one- or several. _

**Winter 2006, Charlottesville, VA**

Blake Moran was flustered. More than flustered. Blake was rocketing toward the threshold of distraught. He was running late to his 9am class and clueless as to the location. He shouldn't have attended that welcome back party last night, but he desperately wanted to fit in. Even in his second semester, Blake was still picking his way through the social morass of college life. In his opinion, being a freshman was miserable.

He'd poured the second cup of coffee intending to stave off the pounding headache from too much cheap beer. He shuddered. A night of cheap beer never ended well. The college life stereotype thrived at UVA. All of this privileged money, and yet these students still chugged cheap beer. The beer alone was reason enough to boycott campus parties. But that second cup of coffee, which he managed to spill all over his course information and his clothes, was Blake's downfall.

He'd hastily rushed out of his dorm room after unsuccessfully cleaning the hot, sopping mess on his shirt, blotting what he could of his papers.

Now, standing on the Lawn, Blake hesitated, calculating his bearings. And felt wet on his face. He glowered at the grey, dreary sky of January in Virginia, and blinked more snowflakes off his eyelashes. Indicative of his carelessness, Blake didn't check the weather, either. Suede won't survive snow, he thought. Damnit. Now he'd ruined a pair of his favorite shoes, too. He pulled his coat tighter around his body, and fished for the gloves in his pocket. Great. No gloves. Could this day get any worse?

Inhaling sharply in the frigid air, Blake fervently pleaded luck to be on his side as he turned toward Nau Hall. Here goes nothing, he thought, as he hurried to find shelter from the falling snow.

Blake rushed in the door with ten minutes to spare. Not as late as he'd expected, he sighed in relief. The lecture hall slanted sharply, a steep slope from the door down to the front row. And of course, the only empty seats occupied that row. Typical. No one wanted to sit up front; too much of an obvious target for ambitious professors. He groaned, resigned.

Elizabeth McCord nearly vibrated with nervous excitement. Teaching her first course at the University of Virginia marked a huge milestone to achieving a tenured professor position. She'd already gained research experience in the politics department, building on her masters' thesis while working toward her doctorate. Elizabeth had adapted easily to the flow of academia once she'd made the transition into this phase of her life. She enjoyed the challenges of learning, and of creating untraditional solutions to developing conflict, without the constant pressure of war and terror weighing on her shoulders.

But then the Dean called over semester break. Dr. Hopkins had unexpectedly taken a leave of absence, and the department needed a lecturer for Introduction to Political Theory. Theory wasn't her forte; Elizabeth's research focused on the Middle East, as a natural result of her time at the CIA. She'd set her goal to teach the International Relations of the Middle East course, or to create her own curriculum someday. She figured the latter was a pipe dream, but doing so was on her bucket list. However, she wasn't turning down an opportunity to start teaching at UVA, even on a temporary basis. She had a semester's experience at a Piedmont Virginia Community College under her belt already, so Elizabeth had no doubt she could prove herself given the chance.

She had agreed to take the position, and crammed for the spring semester over the next three weeks, much to Henry's chagrin. He had understood the importance of the opportunity for her, but they'd still argued over her diminished time with their family over the holidays. Elizabeth practiced and prepared, actually talking through the main points of her lecture in the darkened room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Elizabeth strode in the door at five minutes before the hour, pausing at the top of the stairs to unwind her scarf and unbutton her coat. She adjusted the leather bag slung over her shoulder as she sipped her coffee and surveyed her surroundings. The lecture hall was nearly full, as typical of a lower level class. No one ever wanted to sit in the front row, Elizabeth acknowledged with a slight chuckle. Well, she always did- the exception to the rule. So, apparently, was one young man, who sat in a chair slightly off center.

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and descended into the cacophony of chattering coeds. As her long legs carried her to the desk next to the podium, the students noticed her arrival.

 _Hey, weren't we supposed to have some old guy? This professor is hot!_

 _Yeah, I heard he spit when he talked. That's why no one will sit in the bottom rows._

 _This class might not suck, after all._

 _I didn't know we had any new profs._

 _Someone said they saw a hot blonde hanging around Gibson Hall. But she was with one of the religion professors. Dr. McCord, I think._

 _Damn, all that's wasted on some stuffy religion guy?_

Elizabeth smirked at that comment. Whispering was lost on this crowd, apparently. Let's see if they're as witty under pressure, she thought. She'd be offended if she wasn't nearly giddy at knocking off some of their snark in the next hour. Elizabeth almost rubbed her hands together in glee.

The murmuring broke through Blake's intense focus on the textbook in front of him and he ventured a glance around the room. He'd hoped the routine of preparing for class would calm his anxiety, to no avail. Blake still enjoyed the physical process of handwriting his notes, but had already shredded the edges of his notebook in tiny piles on the desk.

A blonde woman in jeans, heeled brown boots and an army green coat descended the stairs behind him. Her youthful appearance created the impression she was a student, but her demeanor projected a poise and boldness far beyond what an underclassman would possess.

He didn't disagree with the assessments he'd overheard- she was beautiful- but her confidence was even more powerful.

Blake suddenly, strangely, felt rather protective. He half turned and projected his voice. "Why don't we all take a seat and think our private thoughts, shall we," disdain evident in his tone. Several snickers followed.

Crap. Did he really do that? Well. He didn't know any of these people, anyway. One semester- please God, no group projects- and he was out. Electives were a colossal waste of time. Why did he need anthropology on Wall Street?

The woman paused as she set her bag and coffee mug on the desk, glancing his way while she unwound her scarf. Her piercing blue eyes startled him. She inclined her head, as if she'd heard Blake's comments and appreciated the sentiment. Another moment passed, then she rolled her shoulders and gathered herself, walking in front of the podium.

"Good morning."

The class were still talking amongst themselves, but she waited, patiently, until the din quieted, that brilliant blue scanning the room.

"I'll try that again. Good morning. Welcome to Introduction to Political Theory."

Well, shit. Blake fervently willed the floor to open up and swallow him. Politics? He was supposed to be in anthropology. Rather reluctantly, but still. Damn that beer. And that coffee. He'd chosen Nau Hall because most of the larger humanities courses were held in that building. Obviously, he'd been very, very wrong.

Blake slid his anthropology book off the table into his lap, hoping no one would notice. So that's what the snickers were for, he thought. Not only did he make an ass of himself with his comments, everyone knew he was in the wrong place.

Now what? To leave now would call attention to his plight, but to stay would do the same. Through the buzzing of his frantic thoughts, Blake heard the professor continue her greeting.

"I'm Elizabeth McCord," she announced. "Dr. Hopkins took an emergency leave of absence this semester. As a result, you're stuck with me."

"Some of you may have seen me over at Gibson Hall." She stared directly at the student who made the relevant comment. He visibly hunched over in his chair. "I've been researching my PhD in politics at UVA since last summer, but to be honest, you're my first class here."

Elizabeth snorted inwardly as she heard several exclamations of relief that an inexperienced professor would render the class a cakewalk. These students were in for a rude awakening.

Blake nearly cringed at the awkwardness of the moment, but Elizabeth calmly surveyed the room.

"Despite that fact, I'm no rookie," she continued. "I was a CIA analyst for 15 years. Don't mistake my kindness for weakness, or my inexperience for naivety. I can assure you, neither is true."

The room quieted as she spoke. "I also know 10 ways to kill a person with my bare hands."

The ensuing silence was deafening.

"Ok, people, loosen up a bit," Elizabeth shook her head, the corners of her lips quirked in a half smile. She opened her hands, palms up, as if to say 'well, I tried', but the students' reaction didn't seem to faze her.

"I majored in math as an undergrad and then earned my masters in foreign affairs, both here at UVA, so I'm a lifer."

"I learned Farsi and Arabic during my tenure at CIA, French and German before then," she continued. "I know a little Spanish, probably just enough to get in a bar fight." Elizabeth held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. Laugher skittered among the students. "Or starve because I mistakenly asked someone to sew for me instead of cook. My family claim my cooking skills are horrendous." She shrugged slyly.

"I have three kids, so theoretically I should be good at wrangling cats, but I'm lost most days with them, I tell ya. And 6th grade homework is hard," she conceded.

A hand raised, followed by, "So this class will be easy, right? You know what we're going through."

"Hardly," Elizabeth responded, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Your textbook requirements and syllabus were posted over the break. I assume you've all had a chance to review the materials. If you have any questions, I'm available during my office hours." She paused again, considering her audience.

"For now, we're starting with the social contract tradition. Your first readings are from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan."

Blake heard the frantic shuffling and groans at the realization Elizabeth McCord wasn't a typical professor on a typical first day lecture. At least he wasn't the only one unprepared, he thought, even though his relatively legitimate excuse wouldn't save him.

"My husband is a religion professor, and when he's not quoting from his beloved philosophers, his favorite pastime is imitating Socrates. I'm always the focus of his Socratic method, so I've been waiting for my chance to turn the tables." A lone snicker followed her wry comment.

During her monologue, Elizabeth had been pacing along the front row. Now she stopped, directly in front of Blake.

Placing both hands flat on the table, she leaned slightly forward.

"What's your name?"

"Um, Blake. Blake Moran. Ma'am," he stuttered.

"Based on the introduction, Mr. Moran, why does Hobbes think that it is important to carefully read oneself when laying out a doctrine of political theory?" Her question rendered him speechless.

Blake's mouth gaped open, in a proper imitation of a fish. He tried to speak, took a breath, and started again, unsuccessfully.

Elizabeth waited for Blake to compose himself, not breaking eye contact.

His first coherent thought was: 'She's going to know if I'm bullshitting her. So why bother? He'd already embarrassed himself enough at that point. Right?'

"I don't know," Blake finally admitted quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

The ensuing laughter rushed over him like a wave.

Elizabeth considered Blake a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then walked a few steps to her right, focusing on another student.

Oh, thank God. Blake all but melted into the chair. Someone else could be tortured for awhile.

Despite his earlier humiliation, Blake found the next hour utterly fascinating. Elizabeth McCord had presence. Her intelligence shone in her command of the room as she thoughtfully and carefully led her students through the discussion.

Elizabeth finished her sentence, and glanced at her watch.

"That's all the time we have today. Next class we'll discuss chapters 13 and 14 of Leviathan. I'll see you all then," she concluded.

The sudden commotion of the gathering of books and shuffling of chairs startled Blake from his reverie. He shook himself into focus and quickly packed up his bag. Maybe he could run back to his dorm and hide for a month. Not in these ruined shoes, he sighed. How fast could he shuffle?

"Mr. Moran, hang back a minute."

Blake gulped, leaving his bag on the table as he stood, and made his way to the podium. Elizabeth had donned her coat and was wrapping her scarf around her neck, studying him while she did so.

"I expect my students to be more prepared for the first day of class," she admonished gently. She had to look up at him, even in her heeled boots.

Blake managed a nod, and a timid "yes, ma'am". His brown eyes skittered everywhere but her gaze.

"You weren't supposed to be in my class, were you?" Blake froze, like a deer in headlights.

"I saw your textbook," Elizabeth offered. "And you're not on my roster. I may be former CIA, but it doesn't take tradecraft to figure it out." Her smile was back, more sarcastic, this time.

"Oh, yes, well, I …." Blake stammered.

"Relax," she smirked. "I was an analyst, not James Bond. I don't really know 10 ways to kill a person. That was supposed to be a joke."

"Yes, ma'am, um, no ma'am."

Elizabeth held up a hand, saving Blake from stumbling over his response. "What's your major? I haven't seen you around the politics department, and I know most of our students by face, if not by name. I've haunted the religion department a bit longer, thanks to a certain stuffy professor."

So she had heard the comments. Blake blushed. He could sense her amusement, so tried to suppress his embarrassment. He hadn't actually said anything, after all.

"I'm a Commerce major, ma'am, with a concentration in finance," he clarified.

"What made you stay?" Her question was laden with curiosity.

"Other than the sheer embarrassment of leaving from the front row?" Blake shrugged, sheepishly.

"Yes, other than that." Her blue eyes twinkled with laughter. "Commerce majors aren't required to take this class, other than as an elective. I gathered you were supposed to be elsewhere."

"So what made you stay?" she repeated.

"You're awesome, I like you, and you're awesome," Blake blurted. "Maybe I reversed those. Was that inappropriate?" He cringed.

"No, but you're probably too flattering. I'm not sure anyone else thought I was quite that awesome. You were one of the few not stifling a yawn every 10 seconds," Elizabeth observed.

"Perks of the front row. Or petrifying fear," Blake decided, ironically. "But I really was fascinated."

Elizabeth's laughter rang through the quiet room. "None of my jokes were landing. Must've been that sleep deprivation they were all exhibiting. Or lack of coffee." She rolled her eyes.

He shrugged in solidarity. "No one seems to get my sense of humor, either."

"You aren't just kissing up, are you?" Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't work with me."

"I'm a type A people pleaser," Blake qualified. "I'm born to impress. I'm just not doing a very good job of that right now."

"So I gathered." Elizabeth paused for a moment, measuring his reply. "Well, I'm glad you survived your first last day, at any rate. If you need an excuse for your anthropology professor, let me know. It's the least I can do for your undivided attention, even if it was terror induced." She winked and picked up her bag.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Moran." Elizabeth nodded and started toward the stairs.

"Um, Dr McCord, ma'am."

She stopped and turned. "Elizabeth is fine. I'm not quite a doctor, yet," she acknowledged.

"May I stay in your class? I'll need an elective, and, well, I wasn't really thrilled about taking anthropology. Just one of those fine arts requirements I figured I'd suffer through."

A strange look flickered through the brilliant blue, and just as quickly, was gone.

"I'm a freshman, so need to get my electives finished before I start requirements for my major. My advisor stuck me in the class because of my schedule, and the other options were full. This one might actually be full. I shouldn't assume. I'll just go back to anthropology. If I can find it." Blake frowned. Damnit, he was rambling, again.

Elizabeth seemed amused. "Are you sure? This class won't be easy, even as an intro class. And I will expect you to be prepared, next time."

"I don't mind hard work, ma'am. I usually do end up in the right place the first time. And I'm usually much more prepared than I was today."

"Well, I'll let you in on a widely known secret. This building has the only Starbucks on campus. We have a prime location this semester." She toasted with her coffee mug. "So you might have actually come to the right place."

"But you look to have had your fill of coffee this morning, no pun intended." She gestured at his shirt.

Blake grimaced at the reminder. "Yeah, I wish I could walk that back."

"It happens. It's a Monday. And it's snowing." Elizabeth waved toward the window, where the snow fell heavily behind the panes. "I say you get a pass for today. Have your advisor email me, and I'll make room in the class for you. Wednesday is your second chance, Blake. Make it count."

Hearing a door close, Elizabeth looked toward the top of the lecture hall. Her smile bloomed brighter than sun on the snow, completely transforming her body language.

Blake followed her eyes to the silhouette of a dark-haired man. That must be the religion professor, he thought. He doesn't look the least bit stuffy, and felt a bit guilty for the thought. And damn, he's a lucky guy.

"There's my date for that not-so-secret coffee. Makes our location even better, if you ask me." And with a wink, Elizabeth ascended the stairs.

Blake stared after her, absorbing their conversation. He paused for a moment, pensively, and then straightened his shoulders. He gathered his coat and scarf, and his bag with the anthropology book he planned to return immediately.

Blake Moran was determined Elizabeth McCord wouldn't be disappointed.

 _Disclaimers: The Spanish words for cooking and sewing are very similar and easily confused. Elizabeth may very well have been the only person who got her joke, per usual. (Dr. Hopkins is one of my favorite undergrad profs, although he *didn't* spit, but supposedly another one did.) The details of Elizabeth's life & career are based on the ridiculous (our words) timeline 2queens1prince has published on tumblr (updated version is coming soon). I chose for Blake to attend UVA as an undergrad (based on his comment in season 5 that he was Elizabeth's student). _


	2. Chapter 2: Fall 2008

**Fall 2008, Charlottesville, VA**

Elizabeth McCord sauntered into her office, extremely satisfied with her most recent lecture. She'd begun teaching International Relations of the Middle East this semester, and was completely in her element. She hadn't quite achieved full professor status, but had impressed the department chairs enough to be recognized as a rising star in politics.

Elizabeth flung her bag on her desk chair, and started unbuttoning her coat, when a knock sounded at her office door.

She turned toward the noise. A tall, sharply dressed young man stood in her doorway, a distinct contrast from her first impression of him, nearly two years before. His dress shirt and pants were impeccably pressed and precisely creased, and he wore a blazer under his coat. His black leather bag hung from his shoulder, and he carried a tray with two Starbucks cups in one hand.

"Blake! Hi!" Elizabeth greeted him eagerly. "I feel the need for a high five. I just rocked my lecture."

She shimmied her hips, shuffling her way back to where he stood. Blake snorted to himself. For all of her talents, Elizabeth McCord had horrible rhythm.

Blake awkwardly held up his hand, palm out. Elizabeth swung to reach it, and missed. The noise she made was somewhere between a snort and a giggle.

"Damn, I always misjudge how tall you are." She looked down at her heeled boots. "I'm not jumping in these shoes. Come down to my level, will you?"

She laughed, breathlessly, as he shifted his hand lower, and their palms smacked. Her enthusiasm forced Blake into a reluctant smile.

"Hello, Elizabeth," Blake responded somberly.

He'd fallen into the familiar address over time, as they'd remained friendly after their semester ended. Blake was Elizabeth's favorite student, as much for his aptitude with the content as for his witty quips and quick sarcasm. He'd also proven to be an intelligent, competent sounding board for her most complicated research hypotheses. Blake often stopped by her office bearing sugary treats and a bit of salacious university gossip, providing much needed entertainment when the rigors of academia threatened to swamp them both.

"It's Dr. McCord, now, punk." She winked with a broad grin and tilt of her head. "Official as of last month. If you weren't such a great student, and actually slacked off to play hooky for lunch with me, you might already know." The frequency of his visits had waned this semester, and Elizabeth missed the lighthearted moments they'd shared over coffee and donuts.

"Congratulations," Blake offered, soberly. His dismay hung like a cloud over his head.

"What's up, dude?" She joked, trying to coax a smile to his face. At his impassive expression, Elizabeth relented. "I still can't pull that off, can I? Huh." She jerked a shoulder. "I'll keep working on it."

"You do that. Boom is always timeless, if you want to be cool."

"I can sense your sarcasm, in spades," she retorted. "My kids claim I'll never be cool. I'm guessing you agree." Elizabeth waved off the rhetorical question with a wiggle of her fingers. Then she grew serious. "What's wrong, Blake? Your blazer is unbuttoned." He glanced down, acknowledging the uncharacteristic slight but unable to focus enough to fix it. Elizabeth reached out to straighten his pocket square, startling Blake out of his melancholy. "I'm sensing an Eeyore footnote here."

"Um, seems like I'm not such a great student, after all. I'm in Calc this semester, and you'd think I'd get it. But no, I'm struggling. Big time. I've put it off as long as I could, for this reason." His head hung slightly in defeat. "I have to pass this class or I won't graduate next spring." Blake sagged against the doorframe. "I was, well, hoping you could help." His voice trailed off in embarrassment, as his gaze settled on his shoes.

"Lighten up, bright eyes." Elizabeth smacked Blake on the arm, but not the one holding the tray of coffee. That she took from him. "If there's one thing I can nail better than a dance party, it's logarithmic differentiation. You came to the right math nerd. I've got ya."

Blake's face transformed with skepticism as he slowly raised an eyebrow. "What? Henry thinks I'm a good dancer," Elizabeth stated, firmly. And the other eyebrow shot up. "Seriously? I can't dance?" Now sincere shock tinged her voice. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at Blake. He reluctantly shook his head negatively. "I should know better than to listen to him," Elizabeth grumbled, half heartedly. "He's never the right guy to ask."

"The other Dr. McCord is slightly biased," Blake pointed out. "I state the obvious, because I care."

Elizabeth regarded Blake a moment, then shrugged in amused resignation. "Well, Einstein probably couldn't dance either." A fierce light flashed in her blue eyes, as if she were contemplating a challenge she knew she would dominate.

Elizabeth shoved aside stacks of papers on her desk to make room for the coffee, and struggled out of her coat and blazer, motioning Blake to do the same. She tossed hers in the direction of the rack in the corner of the room; he grimaced when they landed on the floor in a tangled pile. "Bllaaakke," Elizabeth admonished with a laugh, drawing out his name in a mock whine. "It's not," she fished for a word, gesticulating wildly, "cashmere, it's fine." At his horrified glare, she acquiesced, planting her hands on her hips. "Of course, it's cashmere. This is you we're talking about here." Blake gingerly reached down and hung her garments and his precisely and neatly on the hooks.

"I assume one of these was for me?" Laughing, Elizabeth indicated the coffee, buried amidst books and folders. "If not, you need to cut back on the caffeine."

Blake actually snorted out loud in response, before he caught himself.

"Yeah, I'm really one to be the coffee police, aren't I?" Elizabeth smirked, unapologetically. "Normally, I'd agree with you, but this?" She waved with her empty hand, up and down her body. "This is all mojo. I have it in abundance today, so you're in luck."

Elizabeth gestured to the chair in front of her desk as she hauled hers around from behind it, tossing her bag her desk, nearly toppling the coffee. Blake winced, righting the cups as he began to systematically sort the hodgepodge of academia scattered across the wood. Elizabeth flopped down with gusto, grabbing the coffee and propping her boots up on the desk as she watched him affectionately.

"You didn't happen to bring any bear claws, did you?" Her tone was hopeful, blue eyes pleading. "I'm starving."

Blake reluctantly stopped organizing to pull a brown paper bag from within the depths of black leather. "Ah ha. You're like Mary Poppins today. Got an umbrella in that bag?" She pounced on the pastries, while Blake stared in confusion at the bright sun streaming through Elizabeth's office window. At his expression, Elizabeth burst into laughter again. "Never mind. Just gimme."

Elizabeth nearly buried her face in the bag as she took a bite of the warm sugar, the brilliant blue warming with bliss. She sighed dramatically. "I can always count on you to feed me."

"Now, I have a few hours free before my next meeting, and I'm caught up on my grading," she managed, mouth full. "Sit down, and let's see what we can do. Calculus has nothing on me."

Two hours later, Blake nearly skipped out the door, a spring in his step, his blazer perfectly buttoned. For what Elizabeth McCord lacked in dancing ability, she far exceeded in mathematical prowess. Calculus now had nothing on Blake Moran, either.


	3. Chapter 3: Spring 2009

**Spring 2009, Charlottesville, VA**

Like so many other mornings, Blake Moran stood at the familiar door, one hand poised to knock, the other hand holding a tray of coffee. Nausea churned in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to disappoint her, and yet, he assumed doing so was inevitable. Blake dropped his hand, and nervously glanced down at his clothes. He inspected his blazer again, the buttons fastened just so, his pocket square lined up perfectly. He brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve, and settled the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Even during finals week, Blake dressed impeccably. He saw no reason to slouch on appearance in the midst of such chaos.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Elizabeth McCord barrelled out of her office. She skidded comically to a halt just before plowing into Blake. He shifted the coffee above her head to avoid a potential disaster.

"Blake, hi!" She exclaimed, breathlessly. "You are seriously uncanny. How do you know what I need before I even do?" She waved enthusiastically at the coffee in his hand. "I was just going to get more coffee. Finals are killing me." She combed her fingers through disheveled blonde hair that looked as if she'd been doing so for awhile. Two yellow pencils haphazardly secured most of the tresses in a loose knot, but strands had escaped to hang in her eyes and brush her collarbone. A red pen was tucked behind her ear and glasses perched on her nose.

She stopped short of reaching for the coffee to do a double take. "Blake, are you alright?" Vivid blue peered at him, her eyebrows furrowed above dark frames. Elizabeth swiped at her hair again and indicated his face, all in the same gesture. "You look like someone ran over your dog."

"I don't have a dog, ma'am. I'm allergic," Blake responded, seriously, his expression marred with a confused frown.

"Yeah, I know," she smirked, and rolled her eyes. "We'd planned to have lunch last week, ya know?" She paused at his lack of recognition. "Huh. At least you brought a peace offering." Elizabeth wrestled one of the coffees from the tray, while Blake observed warily, holding it steady. "Although I'm not really mad you cancelled," she reassured him. "I assume you were studying for finals. But I'll forgive you for not giving me a heads up if you brought food, too.

"I brought muffins." Blake confirmed. "If you have time. I'm sure you're busy." He gestured with the paper bag in his other hand, almost hoping she'd be too overwhelmed with her academic responsibilities to take a break. Blake knew better, though; Elizabeth always made time for him, with or without the accompaniment of baked goods.

"What kind of life would I be living if I didn't have time for a muffin?" Elizabeth asked, matter of factly, as if even the possibility couldn't exist in her world. "Here, I'll lighten some of that load for you," she offered, gleefully, and reached for the muffins as well.

Elizabeth sipped from the cup, then glared mockingly at Blake, lip wrinkled in disgust. "Blake, we talked about decaf," she admonished him gently.

Blake stared at her, flabbergasted. "You can tell just by tasting it?" Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, duh."

Blake handed her the other coffee, swapping the two cups in the tray. "Here, this one's for you. I'm trying to cut back."

"Why on earth would you do that?" she exclaimed, shocked.

"My blood is pretty much caffeine at this point, thanks to the stress of finals," he divulged, with a shudder. "I can't handle much more."

After another disbelieving glance at him, Elizabeth took the coffee from Blake and stepped back into her office, gesturing him in with a wide sweep of crinkling paper and sloshing caffeine. "Come into my office, said the spider to the fly." She cackled at her own joke, then turned to precede him into the room.

"So are you excited for graduation? Is your family coming? At this point in our relationship, it's probably time I met your family, huh?" She rapidly tossed those questions over her shoulder, oblivious to Blake's subsequent grimace.

"Um, graduation is, well, it's a bit much. My parents have insisted on attending, but that might just be difficult," he asserted, rather forcefully. "My mom is making a huge deal out of the ceremony."

At his tone, she turned back to look at him, stopping just at the corner of her desk. "Parents can be a little challenging, sometimes, or so my kids tell me," Elizabeth admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Challenging is an understatement. Sometimes they make me so mad I want to rip the skin off my face."

Elizabeth's grin faded at the vehemence of his declaration. "Is this just about graduation? You know it's supposed to be a big deal, right?"

Her question was met with silence, as Blake stood stock still in the middle of her office, staring out the window. He'd dropped his bag beside his foot, almost absentmindedly. Elizabeth discerned the foundation of his dismay wasn't just graduation, or his parents, or even finals. She'd seen Blake frustrated with calculus, paralyzed with embarrassment, and exhausted from studying, but never quite this unsettled.

"Spit it out, Blake," Elizabeth insisted. "You're shaking like a chihuahua who peed on the carpet, and I'm starting to twitch ."

Blake's face maintained the trademark impassive expression Elizabeth had become all too familiar with over the last four years.

"Oh, come on," she prodded. "That was supposed to be funny."

"I did something, ma'am," he finally mumbled.

"You're drinking decaf and you keep calling me ma'am. I know it's serious." Worry crept into Elizabeth's voice. "Blake, what's wrong?" She focused intently on his face, searching for an answer to his obvious anxiety.

"Let me just say you've inspired me," he began, haltingly, gaze darting everywhere but at her.

"Well, you don't look very inspired. You look terrified. So I'm afraid to ask how." Elizabeth crossed her arms and cocked her head. You didn't decide to drop finance and become a chef, did you?"

Blake inhaled shallowly, then took another, steadying breath. "I'm leaving, ma'am," he blurted out.

"Well, yeah, I didn't expect you to camp out in my office after graduation, Blake," Elizabeth concurred. "Ha. Camp. Like you'd camp. In that." She waved her hand, indicating his clothing, as she snickered at her own joke.

"No, I'm leaving, leaving." Blake corrected her assumption. "I mean, I'm sorry, but I had to get away, and Boston seemed like far enough, and I just applied on a whim, but they actually accepted me, and I don't want you to think I didn't want to stay here, because you're the best professor I've ever had the honor of learning from," he babbled.

"Blake, stop," Elizabeth interrupted, sharply. She laid the bag of muffins on a pile of papers and books, and then a hand on his arm, all traces of amusement vanished from her tone. "You realize you're talking out loud, right? That's not just stream of consciousness in your head. Just take a breath." Her maternal instincts kicked in, and she approached Blake as she would one of her children who'd woke screaming from a nightmare. Slow and steady.

"Give me that coffee." Elizabeth gingerly took the cup from Blake's hand, as if she expected him to bolt suddenly. She put both cups back in the tray, and wedged it in the only clear spot on her desk.

"Sit down." She squeezed his other arm, reassuringly, and guided him into her office chair. Once she was convinced Blake was settled, she perched herself on the edge of her desk across from him.

"Now, one sentence at a time," she encouraged, nourishment completely forgotten amidst her concern.

"You've talked so much about the U.S. isolationist sentiment growing due to the disillusionment with our presence in Iraq. The country still has no clear foreign policy agenda coming out of this last Presidential election. The Doctors Without Borders report for 2008 listed overwhelming humanitarian crises throughout the world." Passion rang in Blake's voice as he spoke. "I realize foreign policy and humanitarian issues can be completely separate discussions, and I'm lumping them all together, but it seems like we could be doing so much more."

"That was way more than one sentence." Elizabeth was slightly taken aback at his sudden intensity. "Are you sneaking into my classes, again, Blake?"

"Well, yes. As many as I can attend," Blake admitted. "I thought it if I was too obvious, I'd look like a stalker or something."

"Obvious to whom?" Elizabeth inquired. "Didn't we determine a long time ago you weren't very good at subterfuge?" She laughed.

"Well, you have the distinct advantage of being former CIA. I'm not sure any future commodities trader has any 007 ambitions," he stated, dryly.

"You've been welcome at any time, without the not-so-stellar tradecraft. You are my best audience," Elizabeth revealed. "Don't tell Henry that," she quickly added. "You bring me food. And you don't quote Thomas Aquinas at me." She curled her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned back, crossing her booted feet at the ankles.

Blake continued his explanation, a fierceness lighting his eyes. "After the last seminar you moderated, about the founder of the U.S. Fund for UNICEF, I thought maybe I could affect some change on a global scale. I know that's rather ambitious, and I'm just me," he trailed off, struggling with his confidence amidst his humility.

"Wanting to make a difference isn't to be scoffed at, Blake," Elizabeth insisted.

"You said once that if you believed in something strongly enough, you had to follow through yourself to make sure change happens. I'd been considering graduate school, and Harvard Kennedy School boasts the best public policy program in the country. It's still on the east coast, and close enough to make my mother happy, or at least think she'll be able to come visit when she wants."

"I just really needed to get away from here. Not from here, here," Blake clarified, pointing to the floor in front of him, "but here," and gestured to the campus outside her window. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Blake apologized. "I wasn't really sure I was going until I got the acceptance letter."

"Blake, you don't need my approval to succeed in this world, although you certainly have my support," Elizabeth assured him. "I'd have no problem writing a glowing recommendation if you needed one."

"I know," he acknowledged, sheepishly.

"I thought about going to Harvard law school. Briefly," Elizabeth mused, her gaze trailing to the window.

"Why didn't you?" Blake asked.

"I realized I didn't want to be a lawyer. I just liked to argue. Too many bad lawyer jokes, anyway. No one would get mine." Elizabeth's answer was laden with sarcasm, and something else entirely.

She paused, tapping her fingers against the edge of the desk, lost in thought, and in the past. Then her fingers stopped moving, and she looked into his eyes. "The truth? I wasn't accepted," Elizabeth confessed. "I thought I'd be devastated, but I was more annoyed they didn't want me. So maybe I really didn't want to be a lawyer that badly," she conceded. "Henry was on the verge of deploying, and I was in love but had no idea what our future held." Her eyes softened at the memory. "I decided to come back here, to come back to what I knew. Then Desert Storm happened and the world changed. I met Conrad Dalton, and found the CIA. Or the CIA found me. I might have ended up on an entirely different career path had I gone to Harvard," she concluded, thoughtfully.

"I'll probably still end up on Wall Street," Blake realized, ruefully. "My parents are private sector people, and, well, I'm a powerful people pleaser."

"We all have things we need to work on, Blake," Elizabeth reached over to pat his hand in solidarity.

"My mother thanks you for believing in me. She's still questioning my decision. And my relationships." Blake winced.

"How can they," Elizabeth wondered, "if you someday help save the world?"

"Well, I haven't done that, yet." Blake rubbed his hands on his pants. "Right now, I'm just a pile of bad decisions." Elizabeth observed his nervous gesture with amusement, waiting for his reaction when he realized what he'd done. "She also doesn't understand why I don't want them at graduation."

Elizabeth recognized the need to tread carefully through this part of their conversation. "Well, as a parent, I can certainly understand their excitement to celebrate your success," she ventured.

Blake focused intently on fixing the creases he'd just flattened, as Elizabeth knew he would. She sensed another underlying issue to his anxiety, but refrained from commenting. In the four years she'd known Blake, he'd mentioned his family, but never any friends or relationships. He never acknowledged his personal life outside academia.

When Blake didn't respond, Elizabeth changed tactics. "You haven't given yourself nearly enough credit for the success you've already achieved. Even with calculus." She nudged the tip of his shoe with her worn riding boot, smiling to herself when he automatically checked for smudges in the pristine shine.

"Here's hoping I have that success with my Intermediate Investments final this afternoon." He looked at his watch. "In 30 minutes, actually." Blake rose from his chair, and gathered the bag he'd dumped on the floor. Once again, he inspected his attire for perfection, pausing to straighten his cufflinks.

"I have no doubt you'll ace the exam," Elizabeth encouraged, shifting off the desk to stand next to him. "I'll be here, grading much more happily, thanks to you." She indicated the coffee and muffins, forgotten during their discussion. "Tell your parents you'll be in good hands at graduation, if they don't come," she offered. "I'll cheer loudly enough for all of us."

Blake's smile bloomed, full and genuine. "I'd like that, very much." Elizabeth stifled her sudden urge to hug him. She didn't think he wasn't quite ready for that display of affection, yet. Another time and place, perhaps.

Elizabeth followed Blake to the door. "Congratulations, Blake," she said, as he stepped out into the hallway. "Harvard is lucky to have you. Whatever you do, you'll always have a place with me. The sky's the limit for a guy like you."


	4. Chapter 4: Fall 2011

**Fall, 2011, Charlottesville, VA**

Elizabeth crossed her arms on her desk, and laid her head down, fighting back tears again. Grief and anger always smothered her on the anniversary of the terrorist attacks, even ten years later. She understood the stages of grief, at least academically, but never quite could pinpoint where she was realistically in the cycle. Not with 9/11, not with her parents' death. The never-ending circle cracked, and maybe became easier to bear at times, but the anguish never quite disappeared completely. And then it all came rushing back with a vengeance, and she was left shattered and heartbroken.

In hindsight, she should've just cancelled her lectures. Elizabeth knew herself well enough to realize she'd push through, mechanically, but buried the knowledge of the effects on her body somewhere in denial. So here she was, exhausted, in the middle of the day, struggling to gather the motivation to face another full classroom in a few hours.

She tilted her head slightly, without lifting her head, when a knock broke through her overwhelming thoughts, just enough to see her teaching assistant standing in the doorway.

"Hi, Emma," Elizabeth mumbled to the strikingly tall brunette. "Don't mind me." Elizabeth vaguely motioned Emma into the room, shifting her chin to rest on her folded arms.

"Are you alright, Dr. McCord? Emma asked, hesitantly, as she took a few steps toward Elizabeth's desk.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… it's a rough day," Elizabeth admitted. _What an understatement_. She pushed her body off the desk, sitting up in her chair.

Emma offered a comforting smile in return. Elizabeth was hauntingly aware the young woman would've been about Jason's current age at the time the world imploded, and for some reason, that knowledge added a layer to her grief.

"I've brought your mail, and those last assignments you needed to be graded. Can I get you anything else? Coffee, maybe?" Emma asked kindly. She set the stack of papers and a large envelope on Elizabeth's desk. "I have another hour before archery practice."

The sincere concern in her voice prompted Elizabeth to respond. "Sure. That would be great, actually." Her voice was flat, despite the cheer she tried to force into her tone. Elizabeth mentally shook herself. _Come on, Elizabeth, get with it._ "I appreciate the thought," she added, with as much feeling as she could muster.

When Emma left the room, Elizabeth spared a glance at her students' work, barely contemplating the task of reading through Emma's notes. Comprehension was just a monumental effort for the day. Instead, Elizabeth reached for the yellow bulky mailer, glancing at the return address. Cambridge, Massachusetts. _Blake?_ she wondered to herself. She squeezed the thick paper, her fingers squishing slightly. _Well, huh._

Curiosity aroused, Elizabeth set the envelope in her lap, and carefully cut a slit in the end with the letter opener from her desk drawer. Sliding her hand into the opening, she encountered fabric, and pulled out a bundle of grey cloth. A white card wafted to the floor, and Elizabeth grasped at it quickly, snagging the note in her fingers. She flipped the card, so the message was upright. " _Harvard's loss. They couldn't have handled you_ ," she read, black ink penned in familiar handwriting. A smile teased the corners of her mouth. _Blake._

Elizabeth set both the card and package remnants on her desk, along with the letter opener. She shook open the fabric, holding the top edges, shocking herself by bursting into laughter.

"That's the most I've seen you smile in days," came the familiar voice from across her desk. "Henry," Elizabeth gasped, and dropped her arms with a jerk, startled at her husband's seemingly sudden appearance in her office.

"Sorry." Henry apologized with a slight grimace. "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you."

Elizabeth sighed, her smile gone as quickly as it came. "No, it's not your fault. I've been in a fog all week." She ran a hand distractedly through her hair, the other hand folded around the fabric, twisting the soft material in her fingers.

"Understandable," Henry acknowledged, his voice gentle. He paused a moment to observe his wife, her distress radiating through the room. "You know," he began, "Thomas Aquinas once said, 'sorrow can be alleviated by a good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine.'" Elizabeth never shared her thoughts during the first weeks of September. He'd endured the tragedy with her, yet she still had to bear her own unique agony in her role at the CIA. He was never quite able to comfort her, and could only hold her close during the long nights of sadness. "I know you've not been sleeping," Henry revealed. "So in lieu of the rest, I brought lunch. I was hoping you'd at least pretend to eat something with me." He held up a large paper bag so she could see the restaurant logo. "I even went off campus to your favorite Chinese place."

"Dumplings?" Elizabeth asked hopefully, momentarily distracted from her anxiety-driven habits toward clothing. "I might be able to choke down some dumplings."

"Of course." Henry set the bag down on her desk, carefully moving several empty coffee cups and the papers Emma had stacked neatly next to the computer. Elizabeth rose partially out of her chair as Henry leaned over piles of academic paraphernalia to kiss her. "Hi," she murmured against his lips. She lingered in the moment, conveying her silent thank you for his empathy.

Both Henry and Elizabeth looked toward the door as Emma subtly cleared her throat. "Sorry to interrupt, Dr. McCord. Here's your coffee. Hi, Dr. McCord."

"Hi, Emma," Henry stepped away from the desk and reached to take the coffee from her. "Are we confusing, or what?" He grinned broadly, clearly amused at her comment.

"Not really," she responded, matter-of-factly. "Let me know if you need anything else, Dr. McCord."

"Thanks, Emma," Elizabeth replied, as the young woman closed the door behind her, grateful for Emma's perception. She flopped back into her chair with a sigh.

"That's funny, isn't it?" Henry queried, cocking an eyebrow. "The Dr. McCord thing." Henry gestured between he and Elizabeth, indicating the obviously identical monikers. He stared skeptically at Elizabeth when she shook her head. "Blake always found that funny," Henry argued.

"Blake was only humoring me," Elizabeth clarified, with a wry grin. "I wouldn't stop referring to myself in the third person in the months after I successfully defended my dissertation. He never would call you Henry, so somehow, he turned our names into his own personal joke."

"And you laughed, every time," Henry reminded his wife. "I've never seen two more different people have such an identical sense of humor." Henry shook his head in mock disbelief.

"As perfect as you are, babe, even you don't get my jokes. Someone has to. Because I'm damn funny," Elizabeth retorted affectionately, gesturing for Henry to hand her the coffee.

"If you say so," Henry bantered lightly, pleased to see Elizabeth's amusement. He set the fresh coffee behind her computer screen, blocking her easy access. "Seriously, babe, do you really need anymore of this?" he chided, indicating the empty containers already littering her desk. "There are at least 10 cups here," he pointed out, incredulously, checking for any remaining liquid before tossing the cups in her trash can.

Elizabeth ignored his admonition, her attention suddenly diverted by the smells wafting from the takeout bag that unexpectedly had her stomach rumbling. She scooted forward in her chair, intending to open the food herself as he spoke, interrupting her actions.

"Something else has made you smile, though, besides your incredibly perfect husband, and the promise of dumplings." Henry winked at her, and gestured to the bundle of grey she still held on her lap.

"Blake," Elizabeth replied. "His timing is uncanny. Not quite like yours." The emotion swirling in her eyes didn't quite yet match the warmth of the smile she gave him. "But today, he nailed it."

"He was good at figuring out what you needed when you needed it," Henry acknowledged. "I think you did the same for him, too."

"I don't know about that," Elizabeth shrugged, doubtfully. "I helped him with calculus, but he mostly just needed time to grow up and gain a little confidence in himself," she acquiesced.

"One of the greatest joys of being a teacher is the opportunity to bestow upon a student your knowledge and compassion," Henry stated sagely.

"Aquinas again?" Elizabeth asked, sarcasm creeping through her melancholy. "I haven't heard that one before, surprisingly."

"Henry McCord. That was an original." He raised his hands in humble submission, in direct contrast to the cocky grin on his face.

"You do have some fairly impressive ideas yourself, Professor," Elizabeth admitted, laughing more freely now. "Including those dumplings."

"Someone has to remind you to eat, and monitor your coffee intake. We obviously need Emma to do a better job of the latter." Henry swept his gaze to the coffee still out of her reach. "She still hasn't yet learned to thwart your CIA tactics."

"Give her some credit," Elizabeth insisted. "She keeps me in line otherwise. She's no Blake, but no one can quite be Blake."

"So how did he manage to make you smile, today of all days, from nearly 500 miles away?" Henry wondered.

Elizabeth unfurled the sweatshirt in her hands, turning the material so Henry could see the front.

"Harvard Law, just kidding," Henry read, chuckling. "So you told him?"

"I did," Elizabeth confessed, "before graduation, when he came to my office to tell me he was going to Harvard for grad school."

"Did you disclose how indignant you were at the time?" He pushed the armchair closer to her desk, and began to unpack takeout boxes.

"I might've toned that down a bit. He was nervous enough about his own decision," Elizabeth explained. "I didn't want to influence his attitude before he even got there. Although clearly, the school is inferior if they didn't want me," she grumbled.

"Of course they are, babe," Henry quickly agreed. "But it's their loss, in the end. They couldn't have handled you."

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, dumbfounded. "Okay, that's just creepy. Blake said almost exactly the same thing." She suspiciously narrowed her eyes at her husband. "One of these days, you two are going to gang up on me again."


	5. Chapter 5: Spring 2014

**Spring 2014, New York City, NY**

Blake Moran was beginning to hate New York. He sighed, rather dramatically, more because of his circumstances than any singular event. "My usual, please, Abby," he informed the barista, as he reached the front of the queue. He haunted this coffee shop regularly, and the routine settled his anxiety that particular morning.

Blake had been on Wall Street for a year. A year and two months. Fourteen months of a job to be coveted by his classmates, for which he didn't even need to interview. Fourteen months of late nights, early mornings, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. He didn't mind the hours so much, but he didn't enjoy the job.

Blake thought he would discover his passion on Wall Street. Even after studying public policy at the Harvard Kennedy School, the finance world still intrigued him, enough to begin his career in the Big Apple. He secretly harbored his dreams to change the world, but that idealism faded in the stark reality of the financial district. After a year at Baldwin and Wilder as an analyst, Blake realized although he might become filthy rich, he'd lose his soul in the process. Wall Street was just an extension of the immature frat boy community he escaped at UVA.

He paced in Cafe Grumpy, across the street from his office building, waiting for his s'mores latte. His office. He snorted in contempt. He didn't have an office. He practically lived in a miniscule cubicle surrounded by too many people. People he was starting to resent. People from whom he needed space, hence the need for coffee not brewed in the firm's kitchenette. He just couldn't deal with people anymore today. He looked at his watch. 10am. This was going to be a long day.

He glared at the young blonde woman working the espresso machine behind the counter, and twirled his finger in the air, motioning for her to move more quickly. He didn't really want to go back to work, but his patience was stretched thin.

"Come on, Blake, we go through this ritual every day." Abby tossed out the sarcasm with ease as her hands flew along the levers, steadily filling cups with the aromatic liquid.

"And yet every day, my order takes just as long," Blake retorted. "Other people are working, you know." He fell into their familiar banter without a thought. "You don't need to draw those cute little pictures on the cups. This isn't kindergarten." Abby's caricatures were stunningly accurate, miniature portraits of her favorite customers. Blake relished her added flare, but covered his delight with the expected mockery.

"You're exceptionally friendly today. What's the occasion?" Abby countered, thoroughly enjoying their repartee.

"Actually, I hate most people. It takes all my skill to hide that," Blake replied, quirking an eyebrow in derision.

"You'd better work a little harder, then," Abby shrugged nonchalantly. "You aren't fooling me."

In his coat pocket, his phone vibrated. Great. More people. He ignored the call. The vibrations stopped, then started again. Good God, could people just leave him the hell alone. He took out the phone, gearing up to curse at the hapless and clueless person who couldn't seem to let him get his coffee in peace.

He glanced at the screen briefly, then again, for a longer moment. He actually squinted, convinced he was reading the name wrong.

Elizabeth McCord.

Blake hadn't spoken to his former professor in over a year. They'd exchanged emails, but he skipped the alumni functions at UVA and her friendly offers to visit the farm house. He'd just been too busy, or too stressed, or too focused on climbing his way up the ladder. Vacations and leisure time didn't exist in the vocabulary of Wall Street. The comfort of their affectionate relationship had tempted him, but he really no desire to go back to his former college life.

Blake held up a hand to halt Abby's next comment, stepping away from the busy counter to a more quiet area of the room. He pressed the call button on his Blackberry and held the phone to his ear.

"Dr. McCord, hello." His voice warmed exponentially, Wall Street momentarily forgotten at the unexpected connection with his friend and mentor.

"Blake, you might need to change that greeting," Elizabeth McCord began, without preamble. The familiar husky drawl flashed him back over eight years and countless coffees to a bitter, winter morning in January. "Do you have a minute?" she asked. "I have a proposition for you."

He listened, intently, in the corner of that coffee shop, his order long forgotten to the dismay of the harried barista. Gradually, Blake unconsciously straightened, segueing from the informal address of her first name into the more formal 'ma'am' as he responded to her comments. His contribution to the discussion needed few words, other than 'yes'. When Blake hung up the phone, he stared at the screen in mild shock, processing the conversation.

Then a huge grin engulfed his face. Suddenly, people didn't matter. Neither did the coffee, or the endless ladder, or even New York City.

Blake Moran was finally getting his chance to help change the world. He was going to Washington.

 **END.**

 _These are the scenes I envisioned with Blake and Elizabeth when I first began the idea of this story, after Blake's admission he was Elizabeth's former student. I leave them in good hands in the State Department, secure in Blake's ability to feed Elizabeth sugary carbs when she needs to be reminded to eat. The actors' relationship off screen has created such an amazing chemistry between the characters, and I wish we could see all of the scenes that don't make it to Sunday nights. I can't touch the beauty of Blake's revelatory speech to Elizabeth, but I hope I've done justice to the affection and camaraderie they've demonstrated over the past five seasons._


End file.
